She remembered that it was her plan of setting up house with Aubrey which had so nearly broken down his resolution. Anything were better than that! he had exclaimed. For a little while she played with the idea of immediately hiring the house in Hans Town, and writing off to tell Aubrey that she had done it. But that scheme was soon discarded with all the others, because she could not be quite sure that it was out of his power to scotch it. He had more influence over Aubrey than she had chosen to admit to Edward; moreover, since he seemed to have discussed her future with her uncle, he might rely on Mr. Hendred to scotch it for him. In course of time he could be made to realize that she preferred spinsterhood to the brilliant match he apparently believed to be her destiny, but she neither wished to languish until public opinion placed her on the shelf, nor did she cherish illusions about her love: not for him the life of a celibate, mourning his lost bride: he was very much more likely to seek forgetfulness in excess, and would probably be next heard of flaunting some dazzling lightskirt all over Europe. For the moment he was tied to Yorkshire by Aubrey’s presence in his house; but any day now Aubrey would leave the Priory, and then, Venetia thought, he would be lost to her indeed.
Her fears and schemes left little room in her mind for minor considerations. She responded mechanically to her aunt’s suggestions for the day’s pleasures; accompanied her dutifully on a shopping expedition, and to a concert; her brain in a ferment while her lips uttered inane civilities. Mrs. Hendred, finding her in so complaisant a mood, brought up the subject of Edward’s projected party again, and was delighted to meet with no opposition. She suspected that Venetia hardly realized what had been said to her, but she was determined to hold her to the word she had given so abstractedly. Edward had invited them to dine at the Clarendon Hotel, and in Mrs. Hendred’s opinion this lavish gesture could not fail to recommend him to Venetia. The best and most expensive dinner in town was to be had there, for the cook was a Frenchman, and not less than £4 was the cost of quite a simple repast. Edward had invited Mr. Hendred too, but seldom had that dyspeptic gentleman refused an invitation with less regret. French dishes were no treat to him, and he had taken Edward in aversion. He said that a man who was prosy before he reached his thirtieth year would be intolerable long before he attained his fortieth; and that Venetia could do very much better for herself. So the party numbered three persons only, Edward having no acquaintance in town, and Mrs. Hendred not choosing to fill her husband’s place from her own large circle of friends. Even quite elderly gentlemen were more than likely to put forth their best efforts to captivate Venetia, and she wanted to introduce no rival to Edward into his party.
The evening began well. No sooner did the maitre d’hotel realize that the gentleman from the country was entertaining that well-known epicure and leader of the ton, Mrs. Philip Hendred, and a perfectly ravishing young female, dressed in the first style of elegance, than he revised his previous plan, and bowed the party not to a secluded table in one corner of the room, but to one reserved for the most respected patrons, and himself presented Mr. Yardley with a large bill of fare. Between them, he and Mrs. Hendred selected a most succulent meal, which Mrs. Hendred was able to partake of without the smallest misgiving, because she had met Mr. Rogers that very day, and he had set her right about Lord Byron’s reducing diet: his lordship had not drunk vinegar, but soda-water, and what regimen could be easier to follow, when one was not particularly partial to wine? So the dinner passed off very successfully, and if Venetia contributed little to the conversation at least she responded with her lovely smile to any remark that was addressed to her. Probably Mr. Yardley was satisfied, for he had so much to impart to his guests about the various places of historic interest which he had been visiting that neither lady had much opportunity to say more than: “Indeed!” or: “How interesting, to be sure!”
Mrs. Hendred’s town coach conveyed them to the theatre. Edward had procured a box, and Mrs. Hendred was glad to see that Venetia accepted with sweet, if slightly absent, complaisance all his solicitous efforts to secure her comfort. Venetia was, in fact, considering a new and extremely daring scheme, and throughout the first act of the play she sat wondering whether she could summon up the courage to present herself boldly to the eldest of Damerel’s aunts, disclosing all her story, and begging for her support. It was a desperate plan, and by the time the curtain fell a great many objections to it had presented themselves to her. She came out of her deep reverie to find that Edward was asking her how she liked the play. She returned a civil answer, and then sat looking idly round the house while he delivered himself of his own considered opinion.
Her attention was almost immediately attracted to a box on the opposite side of the theatre. It had been empty until after the curtain had risen, but it was now occupied by a lady and gentleman of such modish appearance that many more eyes than Venetia’s were turned towards them. Neither was in the first blush of youth, the gentleman, indeed, bearing a strong resemblance to the Prince Regent. He had very much the same protuberant blue eyes, and florid complexion; he wore a coat of exaggerated cut, a splendid waistcoat, and his pantaloons were smoothly stretched across a stomach of noble proportions. He had levelled his quizzing-glass at Venetia, but after one cursory glance at him she had transferred her gaze to his companion.
If the gentleman was magnificent, the lady was the more striking of the two. A hint of brass in the colour of her exquisitely dressed curls might betray the hand of an expert coiffeur, the delicate blush on her cheeks might have issued from an expensive jar of rouge, but her figure, tantalizingly revealed by a very low cut gown of silk so soft and diaphanous that it clung like a cobweb to her form, owed no more to art than did her large, brilliant eyes, her classically straight nose, or the lovely line of her jaw. Diamonds hung from the lobes of her ears, flashed on her white bosom, and on her arms; an ermine cloak had been flung carelessly over the back of her chair, and she was leaning a little forward, her gaze, like her companion’s, directed towards Venetia. There was a slightly amused smile on her tinted lips; she was slowly waving to and fro a fan spangled with diamond chips, but as Venetia stared at her she lifted the other hand in a tiny gesture of salute.